


Champions

by braindelete



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Gen, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braindelete/pseuds/braindelete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First person narrative in which Tony Stark reflects on the Ultimates team. Spoilers for Ultimates 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champions

The sun is a rude beast who finds a way to push her tentacles through the curtains to wake me in revenge for the fact that the sun never gets a chance to rest. So people like myself all over the world must be woken abruptly by her appearance. The sun, is a bitch.

Hangovers start simply enough, your body's rather insisting way of telling you not to drink nearly as much next time. Of course, my body can warn me all it likes, but it doesn't get a say when it's killing me with cancer. The headaches aren't near as bad as the brain jack-hammer caused by "dah tumah." The act of getting out of bed is the one that's a trouble.

Before getting out of bed there is a specific mental checklist: does your head hurt? Do you have nausea? Can you get out of bed? Are you bleeding from anywhere you shouldn't be? Today it is yes, no, yes, no. Which all and all, is a good response to the check list. After the checklist, it's to the medicine cabinet for the millions of tiny little pills I ingest on a daily basis. One pill, two pill, red pill, blue pill... if that whole fish thing hadn't worked out, Seuss would have done well in pharmaceuticals.

I don't get breakfast in bed anymore.

Despite the new life in this place from the Ultimates team taking up residence, the house seems too empty without Jarvis. If he were to come back from the grave, I'd never tell the old queen that I missed him as he might drag me to his team to play catcher. Perhaps we'll discuss the matter in Hell.

My kitchen has become a stage with Mrs. Janet Van Pym, handling both the breakfast and entertainment portion of the morning, whipping eggs in a barely there neglige with lace trim and silk that hugs all of her curves just enough to give her breathing room. It's a wonder Rogers hasn't swooped in here to cover her up with the largest sweater known to man. Not that the scene bothers at me. Janet is pleasant enough, and something gorgeous to look at if anything.

Though, I'll never understand what Rogers is thinking, with all his moral compassing. He's with this woman clearly on the rebound, so quickly from her separation from Hank. It seems out of character for what I know of him. Even I wouldn't tap that well.

I suppose he has bigger problems on his hands.

Rogers knows his days are numbered as alpha dog. As soon as they perfect that super soldier serum, he won't be the only grotesquely fit BAMF on the block. Maybe he's angry because he knows we're all he's got in this world, with that Barnes fellow worse off than I am. He shouldn't worry too much though... the rate Banner's working that serum will never get cracked what with the way he's hulking out every time someone farts in his direction. That tasty dish Betty Ross isn't helping matters either... I'd give her a toss if she wasn't such a screeching harpy of a woman.

I often wonder what it must be like to come back the way the Captain did, to feel entirely out of place in somewhere so foreign and so familiar. He's not a sociable fellow by any means, but then again, I can't imagine that many would be in that situation. Whatever his short comings, Steve Rogers is a survivor and he'll adapt like humans have for centuries, or parish in the attempt. Of course, we hope for the adaptation.

Clint Barton has no one else either. The three of us have that in common, all of us missing essential connections for the human condition. GI Joe has no one but a dying memory of a former brother in arms and a woman who loved him once but they can never go back. Barton lost his family, his wife and children to brutality and though it's driven him a little mad, who wouldn't be? Questionable mental health aside, he's an excellent marksmen and I pity those on the receiving end of his shot. And on a good day, I'd hit it and quit it.

I am alone without them. Jarvis gone. Family gone. Natasha... well, she was unfortunate.

I wish Thor lived here.

It could be said that this common ground bonds us all together. Even Pym and Janet seem to be alone when not together, and a man like Pym who's positively crazy and brilliant at the same time can't have an easy time of it, especially with the title of abusive husband is tacked on. A genius in his own right though and deserving at least of the respect that entitles one to.

That's what makes us a good team then, the pulling together of singular souls with a hope for a common good.

Or being in the right place at the right time.

Today will be filled with pointless meetings and drawn out conversations about nothing, involving shareholders and board members convinced I'm not paying attention my job. To their credit, I'm mostly not paying attention to my job, but I'm actually quite good at ignoring it and succeeding at it in tandem. While I waste my life in an office I think about ways I could upgrade my Iron Man, the women I could call for an evening on the town when I'm finished and what the Ultimates might be up to.

Steve Rogers will no doubt wander the streets of New York, wondering what happened to the world of his youth. He'll meander to and from antiquities shops in search of remains of his yesteryear, in the form of the random knick knacks and a record or two here and there. He'll try to capture something long gone and face the inevitable disappointment of his relationship with the weaker sex. He'll spend another day resigning himself to the discomfort he feels and lock himself away listening to tapes of FDR's greatest hits of the Fireside Chat.

Hank and Janet will attempt to fool people that they are anything but on again off again abused again betrayed again, as she mingles with him in a "friendly" way behind Rogers' naive back. Janet is a creature in need of a man who isn't confined by the philosophical ideals of a simpler time. She needs to be considered an equal party rather than a fragile fawn in need of protection from the harsh realities of the outside world. She is a modern woman. Hank is a modern man. Somewhere in their strange relationship they find a thread that draws them together. No one outside of them will ever understand it.

Thor is on Asgard enjoying the company of barely covered Scandinavian bodies with buxom chests, no doubt clinging to him like strippers to a pole while he licks Mead off their silky skin. Oh, to be a God...

Barton will spend his afternoon shoot at things and practicing his shot. Which, for him is a good thing when it keeps his mind off of the things that had been done to his loved ones... if he keeps it to the desired targets and isn't aiming at passer-by civilians, we won't have to commit him any time soon. As long as he doesn't shoot me, I'm alright. Also, it'd be nice to keep blood off the Persian in the foyer.

Evening comes blessedly quick, though I've realized that when your days are numbered they tend to go by faster. My Sell By date clocked at five years, I figure I've roughly 1435 days to go, give or take. The funny thing about a "tumah" is that it can take when it pleases without remorse or consequence. here one day, gone the next. I can only hope to go out with a bang and not a whimper, though if a whimper it will be, let it be a resounding one.

One should be so lucky as to go out in an orgasm.

A quick change like in the wings of my worldly stage, from tailored suit to tailored tuxedo and it's off to a benefit for mentally challenged penguins or save the deaf dolphins. It's something I've no interest in, but there will be corks popping that echo through the night and women who's g-strings will snap off simply at the sight of someone who arrived. The young ladies love these types of events, and so do the young men for different reasons of course. Women are there to praise those who care for the cuddly creature of the moment, while the man is on the hunt for one of those lovelies to take home as his own trophy.

Tonight, I have my choice of three I've picked from the bunch. Blonde with a plunging neckline an inch away from being trampy, Brunette numero uno with her hair in a forties finger waves I could take home to Rogers if she doesn't get my jackpot and Brunette numero dos with the shear top to her dress exposing the navel and slender torso underneath.

Eanie, meanie, minie, moe...

Brunette numero uno wins the prize tonight and she is easy enough to convince that the upstairs bedroom of the host's is something that must be seen to believe. She enjoys the endangered purple sea lion or whatever it is we're supporting, but not as much as she enjoys having champagne drizzled over her breasts and licked off slowly by the very tip of my tongue.

After foreplay and three full rounds of rumpy bumpy in a strangers bed, I leave her with the promise of calling her soon, one she already knows I won't keep before the lie leaves my lips. I slip out the back entrance to the waiting limo I arrived in, deciding it's best not to make a scene.

Not because I'm sleeping with woman, that's to be expected, but because I'm about to lose my lunch and publicly, it's just sad really.

When I make it to the private bath in the master bedroom, privacy of my own home around me, it's fourty-five minutes of paying homage to the gods of porcelain while offering it the bounty of the dinner's puttanesca before the cold marble of the floor soothes. Maybe I will sleep here tonight? Then I remember I'm not 21 on and invincible anymore, and make my way to the bed.

Along my path is the debris of my evening, tux coat, bow tie, white starched shirt and my pants as I slip under the blankets and stare at the ceiling. I know that many people question my behavior. I know that even the closest two me, like the Ultimates team think I'm doing them and myself a disservice. This all might be very true, but there is one thing that they forget to remember.

Time is not definite.

The interesting thing about cancer is that it doesn't have a real time period. It won't be that exactly 1435 days from now I will die on the act last day of the count down. Anytime between here and there, that could be the end. I'm not sure why dah tumah wants to kill me, because I have never done anything to it to warrant such malice... except try to kill it with radiation and chemo therapy. It did make the first move.

My point now is exactly this: I have enjoyed myself tonight, and many nights before. I have done things today that I have wanted to do because tomorrow there may not be a chance. Every night when I close my eyes, I am prepared to not wake up the next morning. To be terribly trite, life is short.

I'll be damned if I won't enjoy myself.

Fin


End file.
